


A Writing Expedition

by Elennare



Category: Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 06:12:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elennare/pseuds/Elennare
Summary: With the Portfolio sadly lacking in material, the Pickwick Club takes to the river in a hunt for new inspiration.





	A Writing Expedition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendelah1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendelah1/gifts).



> For wendelah1 - I hope you like it! :)

“I say!” exclaimed Jo one summer evening, bouncing into the parlor. “Has anyone written anything for the Pickwick Portfolio this week? You do realise the P.C. meets in two days?”

At the question, her sisters and Laurie all looked at her with varying degrees of guilt written across their faces.

“I’d quite forgotten about it, with trying to finish this set of shirts for Father. I am sorry, Jo!” Meg was the first to answer.

Beth, it emerged, had been spending every free moment learning a tricky new song, while Amy had been taking advantage of the fine weather to sketch in her garden, which was blooming at its best. Laurie claimed that the heat had burned away what little brains Brooke’s lessons had left him, but he looked a little shame-faced even as he said it; he knew full well that he’d been in one of his lazy moods that week, and this evening had been lounging on the sofa listening to Beth play until Jo had come in. Even now, the thought of stirring himself to activity didn’t appeal.

“Mayn’t we have the week off for once, Mr Pickwick, sir?” he asked Meg, still reclining against the cushions. “We could read through the back issues, and see how much we’ve all improved… It’s far too hot to think of anything fresh.”

“Lazybones!” Jo jeered, pulling a face which Laurie returned with a will.

“Don’t quarrel, you two,” their august president said sternly. “We must all write something, we can’t just let it go whenever we feel like it, or we should never have a paper.”

“Let Snodgrass write it, since he has such boundless energy - I suppose you have a magnificent set of contributions all ready?” Laurie teased as retort for Jo’s earlier comment.

At that, Jo had the grace to look embarrassed. “Not really, I have a couple of scraps but nothing that would amount to a proper contribution. I haven’t been able to write much this week, after the headaches I gave myself reading in the sun on Monday. That’s why I was hoping at least one of you had something good… But I’ll spend tomorrow writing, and see what I can come up with.”

“We all will,” Meg said, looking round at the others. “We’ve all been neglecting the paper recently, and it won’t do. Shall we have a special P.C. meeting in the garret tomorrow, and write together?”

Even Jo, who loved the garret as a rule, didn’t look terribly enthused at this proposal. With the warm sunshine pouring down every day, the thought of holing up indoors was uninspiring; yet something must be done, if their club was to have a paper for their meeting that Saturday. Snodgrass and Weller, as the most avid authors, could probably have dug some old writing out of their desks that would pass muster, but it was always a point of honour that the items presented for the Portfolio should be new - only young Winkle had ever attempted to flout that, and his offer of an old school composition had been met with such great wrath and scorn by the editor that he had never repeated the experiment.

Even now, Amy didn’t quite dare suggest looking out previous work, but she did complain, “The garret will be frightfully hot and stuffy with all of us up there in it in the daytime, and I wanted to get some sketches of the river tomorrow.”

“Can’t be helped,” Jo said brusquely. “ You can sketch any old day, I need your contributions tomorrow if there’s to be a Portfolio in time for the meeting.”

Amy looked cross, and it was quite likely a quarrel would have broken out, had Laurie not been struck with inspiration. “Let’s have a writing meeting by all means, but why have it in the garret? I vote we take to the river and do our writing there, it will be much more inspiring.”

At this idea, smiles appeared all around the room, broadening even more when Jo improved upon it by suggesting they take a picnic lunch with them, and spend the whole day out of doors. A quick vote was taken by Pickwick, and with the motion passed by general acclaim, the club prepared for an outing on the morrow.

The next day dawned bright and sunny for the most part, but with a haze on the horizon that hinted at a possible change in the weather. The girls ran around like mad things going through their daily chores, that they might leave the sooner and have their picnic while the sun shone. With Jo, to be sure, it was very much a case of “more haste, less speed”, as she upset a vase, tripped over the coal scuttle, and generally spread chaos in her wake. Amy, meanwhile, was trying to pack all the sketching materials she could, despite Jo’s scoldings over it being a writing expedition. At last, however, everyone was ready, and they ran down to the boathouse where Laurie was waiting impatiently for them.

“What ho!” he called loudly as soon as he saw them, hurrying to help with the picnic baskets. As he drew closer, he added in a piercing stage whisper to Jo, “All serene, Snodgrass? How was the escape managed?”

“All serene, Weller! Everything went off like clockwork, no one suspected a thing,” Jo replied equally piercingly, as they performed an elaborate handshake.

Had the incorrigible pair had their way, they should have been nothing but ‘Weller’ and ‘Snodgrass’ the whole day long, but Meg’s dignity, Beth’s shyness, and Amy’s sense of propriety had all rebelled at such names while out and about. Meg had managed to hush them by reminding them that after all, the Pickwick Club was supposed to be a secret society. Naturally this led to much loud whispering and dramatic attitudes from both, but as long as they kept it reasonably quiet Meg was willing to turn a blind eye for the sake of peace.

Laurie and Jo took the oars, and the little expedition was soon on its way. They set off with no clear destination in mind, preferring to float down the river until a truly perfect spot should present itself. A few pleasant-looking places were passed, little glades in woods, fields opening to a view of distant countryside, but the rowers were determined not to stop until they found the ideal one. Their perseverance was rewarded before too long; a curve in the river wrapped around a little inlet, made shady and inviting by a willow grove, while on the opposite bank rolling fields gave way to dark woods and faraway hills. Of one accord they pulled towards where an especially large willow made a tiny harbour, and were soon settling themselves among the trees.

The morning flew by in writing. Meg, reminded by their trip on the river of the day of Camp Laurence, and the absurd tale they had come up with, had picked up her thread of that tapestry and was spinning it into a new story. After their antics, Jo and Laurie had both been seized by visions of daring spies and secret societies. Upon realising their contributions were running on similar lines, they decided to put their heads together and write a joint story - a most amusing one, judging from their occasional bursts of laughter, though they refused to share the jokes, saying it would spoil the story. Beth, who had perched near the water’s edge, took a family of ducks paddling next to her as inspiration, writing a pretty little tale with them as her characters. For a few minutes, Amy sighed for her sketchbook, confiscated by Jo until she should write something; then, seeing her sister wouldn’t relent, she settled down to scribble a description of the view, hoping it would pass muster with the stern editor.

Hannah’s delicious picnic lunch made for a merry break, after which Jo graciously consented to hand back Amy’s sketchbook, which was seized joyously by its owner and immediately put to use. Beth, having also run out of ideas for writing, began playing with willow fronds, trying to weave something from them. Meg, however, went back to her little romance, polishing it up; and Laurie and Jo were far from finished, as every time one was at a loss for ideas, the other would be suddenly inspired. As they were arguing whether the orphan child the hero had just rescued should innocently betray his secret, or cleverly rescue him from his enemies, Amy caught their attention by saying, “How queer the light has gone! And yet the sky still looks clear, how funny.”

“It looks clear on this side, but how about behind us?” Laurie said, leaping up and hurrying to the edge of their grove, with Jo hot on his heels.

“My hat!” Jo exclaimed - a most apt phrase, for she was again wearing the old leghorn - as she surveyed the clouds that had mounted up and were now coming their way at speed.

“We’d better get going at once, if we don’t want to be caught in that,” Laurie agreed, stuffing their manuscript into his pocket.

Everyone flew into action, and within a few minutes the rowboat was making its way back upriver. Despite rowing against the current, they made far better time than they had on the way out, for everyone was apprehensive of the coming storm. They didn’t make straight for the boathouse, however, for there was a point where the path came near the river that would make a shorter route for the Marches. Laurie would have left them all there, but Jo pointed out with truth that they would be faster rowing together, and that there was no time to waste arguing. So Meg, Beth, and Amy were put ashore, and the other two were about to pull away when Laurie remembered the story still in his pocket.

“Meg, wait a minute, take this with you,” he called, reaching out with the crumpled papers - and then everything happened at once.

A sudden squall of wind that came racing along nearly ripped the sheets out his hand as he passed them to Meg, and he lunged for them instinctively; just as Jo, who had already begun to dig her oar in to pull them into the current when he called out, tried to twist the movement round and send them back to the bank again. Laurie felt the sudden lurch and tried to counter it with his weight, but misjudged - and over the boat went, flinging them both into the water!

Meg admitted later that her heart seemed to stop for a moment as she stood frozen on the riverbank, clutching Laurie’s papers; but Laurie and Jo lost neither their heads not their oars, and soon had the boat upright again. It was characteristic of Jo that her first question, once she saw Laurie was fine, was to make sure Meg had their manuscript safely in her hands! But having been reassured on that essential point, she urged her sisters to run to the house before the rain should hit, while she and Laurie - who were already as wet as they could get - saw to the boat. Realising there was sense in what Jo said, Meg turned and hurried the younger two towards the house, so they could be ready with towels when Jo returned.

By dint of running as hard as they could, the three girls made it through the door just as the first heavy drops started to fall, and were instantly set upon by Marmee, who had been watching the weather with growing anxiety. By the time they had managed to catch their breath, and explain where the other two were, the rain was coming down in earnest, driven almost sideways by a fierce wind. Mrs March hesitated in the doorway, torn between a maternal urge to snatch up her umbrella and hurry to find Jo, and the common sense that said in such weather all she would achieve was to get herself soaked to the bone as well. Before she could worry enough to set out, Jo and Laurie came running through the rain, both breathless with exertion and laughter - as they paused a moment in the boathouse, gathering their nerve to dash through the storm, they had been simultaneously struck by the absurd side of their tumble in the river, and even now were still laughing about it.

In the end, there was neither a Portfolio nor a Club meeting that Saturday, as both Snodgrass and Weller found themselves stuck in bed with abominable colds. Their writing efforts were not wasted, however, but made for a fine edition the next week - though everyone agreed that the best item by far was Snodgrass’s  epic poem “The Capsizing, or, What Not To Do In Boats”, that had them all laughing until the tears poured down their cheeks.


End file.
